


I just want you up against me

by emmaofmisthaven



Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-11-12 13:34:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11162898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaofmisthaven/pseuds/emmaofmisthaven
Summary: Collection of Rosvolio one-shots and drabbles





	1. Chapter 1

She only discovers his love of art once they move in the house Lord Montague graciously bought them as a wedding gift – if only as yet another display of wealth to rub in her uncle’s face. Benvolio hangs paintings in every room, less as to imitate his uncle and more as true appreciation of the art. He seems to know the artists well, and to have an eye for the beautiful landscapes of Verona. He also grins when Rosaline discovers the house’s library and cannot help but stamping the floor excitingly at rows upon rows of books.

And then Rosaline discovers the charcoal. It is all over his desk, leaving black smudges on important papers and dust on his clothes, sneaking under his nails and between his knuckles. He seems to always be carrying a small notebook and pencil with him, though she never catches him using them.

It takes Rosaline three full weeks before Benvolio finally grows comfortable enough to draw in front of her. It is during one outing, the sun high in the sky and her hand in the crook of his elbow while they walk around one of Verona’s gardens with his uncle, discussing politic. Lord Montague meets another lord, leaving them to their devices, and Benvolio sits on a bench, takes the notebook out, and sketches the nearby bridge.

He is talented, there is no denying it, and Rosaline finds herself enraptured in the way his hand moves across the page, fingers delicate in their holding of the pencil. He stops only to rub one finger and create shadows, then glances up at her. Something akin to vulnerability dances in his eyes – as if it costs him to do this in front of her, and Rosaline wonders if he expected her to mock him for it. Which is egregious at best, coming from a man who brought an entire library to their house because she once mentioned her love of reading.

It becomes more of a habit after that day – after dinner or early in the morning, sitting by the window or in the garden. He fills books after books with charcoal and ink, sometimes paint. He never shows her, and Rosaline never asks.

She finds that she loves to read in the same room when he is drawing – there is something soothing in the scratch of pencil on heavy paper, and of his quiet presence by her side. Not to mention it allows her discreet glances his way. The sharp sinews in his hands never fail to fascinate her, nor does the blackening of his nail when he uses charcoal. There is also the matter of his focused eyes, of his clenched jaw – she may not have thought him handsome before, but her mind slowly changes on the subject.

“Are you in need of another book?” Rosaline is startled out of her thoughts, finding his eyes across the room. She looks down at her book, confused, then up at him again. “It has been ten minutes already, and you are yet to turn a page.”

Rosaline’s dark skin hides the blush on her cheeks, and she forces herself not to look down to her lap once more. Benvolio seems more curious than accusatory, though, but not enough so that she would admit to being distracted by his hands. Her pride and stubbornness run too deep for such a confession.

“My mind went elsewhere, is all.”

He doesn’t seem convinced – and neither should he be – but doesn’t ask further questions. Still, Rosaline could do without the gleam in his eyes. He sees too much in her, as if reading and understanding her deepest thoughts, and it always leaves her uneasy.

“If you say so.”

“I do say so.”

There is no hiding it, a week later, when they fall in bed together and he maps the shapes of her body with calloused palms, tickles her sides with surprisingly gentle fingers. And oh, oh, what he can do with those hands of his.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Rosaline defending Benvolio against Lady Capulet

As dreadful as this whole ordeal is, Rosaline is grateful to no longer be living under Lord Capulet’s roof. Of course, there is the matter of Livia kicking and fussing about living with a Montague – not that Rosaline can blame her sister for it – but it otherwise goes much more smoothly that she would have thought. It would be better, even, if she didn’t have to go through many a supper with her uncle and Lord Montague but, as she learnt, things seldom go her way.

Marrying Benvolio had unexpected perks, though, for her lord husband’s dry wit is a nice reprieve during long evenings with people she does not particularly like. Benvolio cares about politics as much as she does, which is not at all, and busies himself with whispering barbs toward other noblemen into her ear until she stiffs a laughter behind her hand. He always grins at her when it happens, proud and amused, and she slaps his shoulder in answer.

It is one such night, both uncles having retreated to Lord Capulet’s private study for a talk, and Rosaline finds herself sharing the room with her husband as well as Lady Capulet and Livia. Her sister glances her way, as uncomfortable as Rosaline feels, not knowing what to do. She doesn’t need to look at Benvolio to know he must be in quite the same state of mind, never one to hide his disgust for the lady of the house.

(It must have to do with how one night, drunk on wine, they had traded stories about their past and families and learnt that, maybe, they were not as different as they once thought.)

“Livia, is this a new dress?” her aunt asks all of a sudden, startling them all.

Livia’s eyes widen even so slightly as she looks down at her own outfit – the pale green dress she had bought only days ago, after many a day complaining about having nothing to wear. She had somewhat worn Benvolio down until he gave her a few golden coins to spend well, and then had glared at him and snarkily stated that she did not need Montague money. The dress had been bought anyway, and a lecture given about the proper way to thank a family member for his generosity.

“Yes, indeed, my aunt.” Livia preens a little, palms smoothing the wrinkles in her lap. “Benvolio bought it for me. Isn’t it a lovely gift?”

It is a testament to how much they hate their aunt that Livia would be ready to praise the Montague man so openly only to vex the woman. And if the smile Benvolio hides behind his cup of wine is anything to go by, he very well is aware of the fact.

As it is, Lady Capulet turns her deadly stare toward him and clicks her tongue, silent for long second before she finds her words and her venom. “Did he now? Well, I guess those Montagues are good for something after all.” She focuses back on Livia as she adds, “At least he is bringing money to the family, if nothing else.”

Benvolio’s nostrils flare, his hand tightening its grip around the cup of wine until the knuckles turn white, and it is only his will not to start another feud that stops him from opening his mouth. Rosaline, anger rising in her throat, lacks his self-control.

“No need to be harsh, my aunt,” she finds herself saying before she can swallow back the words. “Benvolio has been nothing if kind to us ever since the wedding. Livia and I are most grateful.”

Rosaline is well aware of the three pairs of eyes staring at her – her aunt’s cold stare, Livia’s astonished one and Benvolio’s, unreadable. She finds that focusing on the first one is easiest, for she is used to her aunt’s fits of anger and knows how to navigate such waters. Indeed, Rosaline isn’t surprised when the woman sneers at her.

“’Tis not kindness that had him befriending murderers.”

Benvolio reacts at last, taking a threatening step forward, but Rosaline puts a hand on his arm before he can do anything reckless. She shakes her head, even if she keeps her eyes on her aunt, and he remains still by her side in reply.

“But it was kindness that had Tybalt murdering Mercutio during the Prince’s ball? Why are his actions forgivable in your eyes, but not Romeo’s?” She knows she went too far – the subject of Juliet’s affections and demise still fresh in the lady’s heart – but Rosaline cannot stop the words from rolling on her tongue now. “Or perhaps it was kindness that had you fuelling this feud for decades, and playing the victim at every turn. Or kindness, for turning Livia and I into servant girls. You are far from kind, my aunt, so do not disrespect my husband this way. For when you insult him, it is also our family you insult.”

Livia’s mouth hands open, while her aunt is left sputtering angrily. Benvolio, somewhat, finds her hand, fingers holding her so tightly she is afraid it will leave bruises. Still, it does very little to anchor her anger, for Rosaline takes two step forward and closer to her aunt.

She huffs, before she adds, “And perhaps it is kindness indeed that will stop me from telling you that even an arranged marriage is a better fate that this miserable life you chose for yourself.” She may imagine the incredulous snort of laughter out of Benvolio’s mouth, but she doesn’t take the time to check. Instead, she turns to Livia, and tells her, “Come on, sweet sister. I can no longer stand to being disrespected in such manner. Let’s go home.”

They make it halfway back to their house, in a tense silence, before Rosaline notices that Benvolio never let go of her hand. Livia is staring between the two of them as if seeing them for the first time, and Rosaline forces herself to look away and to ignore how her husband’s thumb is drawing circles against the back of her hand, warm and soothing.

Livia jumps off the carriage as soon as she can, bidding them both a good night before running her way up the stairs and to her bedroom. It leaves Rosaline alone with Benvolio in the entrance hall – her anger has settled down by now, leaving place to horror at her own actions. Surely her lord uncle will not be pleased, and have a lecture prepared for her in the morning. It is this same horror that has he letting go of Benvolio’s hand.

Or at least trying to, for he grabs her hand once more and, with a sharp tug, pulls her toward him. She looks up at him, and her mind settles just in time to understand what is happening.

The kiss is brief but passionate, as Benvolio’s grip on her hip brings her closer to him, as her own fingers grab his shirt for support. It leaves her mindless and breathless for long seconds, before he steps away with a gentle, crooked smile.

“Thank you, dearest wife.”

Rosaline wants to protest – tell him she didn’t do it for him as much as for herself, that she only did it to get on her aunt’s nerves, that she didn’t mean it, that he can shove his gratitude somewhere else – but the words die on her tongue before they can even form. It would be a lie, and Rosaline is tired of pretending to despise him.

So instead she rubs her nose against his, and smiles. “You’re welcome, dearest husband.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: a jealous Rosaline realising she's in love with Benvolio

Rosaline has never considered herself a possessive woman – how could she, when she possesses so very little? She shared her bed and clothes with Livia for far too long, and sold off most of her earthly possessions after their father’s death, in hope of gathering enough for a dowry. They’d only keep their mother’s most precious jewels, since neither she nor Livia had the heart to sell them.

Getting her title back – and with it all the privileges due to her rank – has left Rosaline confused and breathless. Once again, she finds herself at the market, comparing fabrics and necklaces while Livia bothers her to buy a particularly lovely pair of shoes. Once again, she gets to wear different dresses for different occasions. Once again, books pile on her bedside table and on the shelfs Benvolio installed for her. It doesn’t make Rosaline more materialistic, but she cannot lie – she likes having things she can call her own once more.

Still, nothing had prepared her for the deep gnawing feeling in her stomach as another woman laughs, her hand on Benvolio’s arm. The four weeks since the wedding ceremony gave Rosaline plenty of time to learn his smiles – the sarcastic ones were first too come, then more genuine ones, finishing by the smiles she thought for her alone. The ones where he shows very little teeth but with dimples in his cheeks, the ones that are both soft and caring, the ones she came to think as her own.

She should have known better than to expect loyalty out of a Montague. Rosaline curses herself – it is her reputation she fears for at the moment, for everyone can witness Benvolio Montague deep in an intimate conversation with a woman who is not his wife, while said wife is left glaring daggers across the room while feigning conversation with Princess Isabella.

“You are not as stealth as you think yourself to be, dear Rosaline.”

She blinks at the princess, confused for a moment before she blushes. Her dark skin hides the red of her cheeks, but she looks down at her lap as shame overtakes her. She coughs once, clearing her throat, before she answers, “I should have known better than to expect respect from a Montague.”

Isabella’s eyes are inquisitive, her head lilt to the side, yet she remains silent for long seconds. “You truly have no idea,” she says cryptically.

Rosaline frowns at her childhood friend, but some lord shows up by their side and asks Isabella for a dance. The princess eagerly accepts, throwing her friend one last knowing glance before following the gentleman among the crowd of dancers. Rosaline protests weakly, but soon finds herself alone with her cup of wine in a corner of the ballroom. She empties the cup and throws a few more daggers Benvolio’s way.

He, of courses, chooses this moment to seek her eyes, his gaze finding hers across the room. The emotions on his face are unreadable, and perhaps it is the worst part – couldn’t he at least look somewhat apologetic? Or does he care so very little?

No longer able to sit there for all of Verona to witness her watching on her adulterous husband, she stands and leaves the room – not quite running away from him, but close. Her heavy steps lead her to the gardens, but the fresh air does very little to calm her nerves. Instead, she stomps her way toward the fountain, pondering on the best way to make her way back home alone – to an empty bed and an empty heart.

“Rosaline!” She doesn’t turn to the sound of her name, for she recognises the voice. “Rosaline, for heaven’s sake! Woman, will you stop?”

Stop she does, and spin on her heels to face a breathless Benvolio. His eyes are wild from his jog, his chest moving with laboured breaths, his hair a mess. She glares at the lovely sight, for it only brings sorrows to her mind.

“So you do remember my existence. I was worried for a moment there, my lord.”

Benvolio is stricken as if slapped by her hand instead of her words, and Rosaline can only snort at the sight. Good. Let him be surprised by her wrath.

“Woman, what are you –”

“It is one thing to know this marriage is a loveless one. But, truly, it is another to have to stand there and watch as you stomp on my reputation with little ceremony.”

“Rosaline!” He grabs her by the shoulders and gives her a light shake, effectively stopping her rambling. She elects to glare at him once more instead. “Will you calm down and explain what the fuss is all about?”

Rosaline somewhat manages to free one arm, if only to point an accusatory finger at his chest. He doesn’t flinch, but still she does it a second time for good figure. Words fail her for a moment, and so she licks her lips and tries to find her wits. It seems as if her brains were left in the ballroom, along with the heart he stomped on.

“The fuss,” she breathes, the fight escaping her body all of a sudden, “lies in how heartless a man could be to charm another woman when his wife is in the same room.”

“ _Charm another_ –are you talking about Lady Lombardi?” The uncredulous look leaves place to a small laugh of his own, before he looks away and shakes his head. When he finds her eyes again, he sighs and moves closer to her, his free hand cupping her cheek. “Her father is a renowned librarian. I was inquiring as to buy a few volumes for you, my dearest.”

Rosaline’s mouth opens into a wordless protest, for she finds herself a loss for a reply or a reaction. She blinks at him as shames creeps up her spine and heats her cheeks once more. Oh, what a fool she must look like now. But, still, “It did not look like a commercial transaction.”

“Lady Lombardi can be quite… adventurous, when she puts her mind to it. Truly I did not think you would mind.”

“I mind for my reputation,” she answers back. Her mind may stop there, but her tongue keeps running, “And I mind that you find other women more remarkable.”

A gasp get catches in her throat, and Rosaline tries for a desperate step back and away from Benvolio as the intensity of her own revelation dawns on her. She cannot take the words back now, and hates even more how true they sound – how much they talk of her insecurities, when it comes to her own prospect and to Benvolio’s feelings. Such thoughts she had kept buried, to a point where she could deny their sheer existence. But it is out in the open now, and so she braces herself for what is to come, for the mocking tone of his rejection.

The rejection doesn’t come.

Instead, Benvolio tilts his head to the side, as if looking at her and truly seeing her for the first time – as if reading her soul and mind, as if opening a way to her heart. He moves closer to her, until the leather of his coat brushes against the fabric of her dress, until his breath is hot and inviting against her mouth.

“Believe me, dearest Rosaline, when I say no woman could ever be as remarkable as you are.” His eyes flutter to her mouth for a moment, before meeting her gaze again. “Worry not about other women, for my heart shall never be theirs when it belongs to you.”

A gasp escapes her, sharp and loud in the silence of the garden. But Rosaline’s wits are long gone by now, and with them her words – she cannot find the proper way to express herself, to convey the relief and hope and sheer joy his confession brings to her heart. So, instead, she lets her actions speak for her, as she lays her hands on Benvolio’s neck and her forehead against his, closing her eyes and breathing him in. He seems to understand her predicament, for he replies by putting his hands on her hips, before they wrap around her waist and pull her to him.

Her nose is pressed to his collarbone, and Rosaline sighs against his skin, a tentative smile curling up her lips at last. “Let us go home, my dear.”

He kisses her temple, and grins. “With pleasure.”

(And oh, what pleasures indeed.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: still putting up the show while starving for kisses and struggling to keep their hands off each other

Rosaline escapes the room the moment Escalus takes a step toward her – she backs away as swiftly as possible, pretending like she moves closer to the buffet only to sneak behind a door and outside the room. It is coincidence that wants her finding herself on a balcony, the cool air against her cheeks a sharp contrast with the heat of the castle.

She is about to move forward and lean on the balustrade to admire the view, when strong arms wrap around her waist and pull her to the side. Her gasp of surprise is swallowed against her attacker’s mouth, soft and pliant, and it takes but a moment for Rosaline to mellow into the kiss. Her fists close around the leather jacket and her head tilts to the side, mouth opening with a sigh to deepen the kiss.

Benvolio moves them around until her back presses against the hard rocks of the wall, carefully hidden from view by the heavy curtains. They only break away to gulp on much needed air, Rosaline’s giggles bubbling out of her as Benvolio immediately drops kisses on her jaw and along the side of her neck. She chases him off when he nips at her collarbone, her cheeks warm enough to ignite a hundred fires.

“Will you stop?” she asks him in a laugh.

He raises his head to grin at her, his blue eyes flashing in the dark of the night. His hair is a mess already, the way she likes it – curling a little bit between her fingers and falling on his forehead. It makes him look softer this way, makes him look like the man she loves instead of the enemy he pretends to be – like the Benvolio she knows, all charcoal-black fingers and sweet tongue, gentle touches and even gentler eyes.

“Will the sun stop shining its light? Will the bird stop singing? Will the river…”

“Shall I compare thee…”

“And you ruined it.”

She grins at him, proud. Benvolio’s indignant pout only remains a few seconds on his lips before he shakes his head and rolls his eyes at her antics. He rubs his nose against hers, once, twice, before he kisses her again – this time softly, slowly. Her hands move to his neck and his hair, while his caress her sides above the heavy fabric of her dress. His groan is more frustration than pleasure, at this point, and Rosaline can only smirk at his lack of patience.

“Could we set up another feud, so the Prince will move the ceremony forward?” he asks.

The idea is preposterous at best – they are so close to finding out the truth about their common enemy, and the ceremony is in a week anyway, Verona more peaceful that it has been during the last decades. It is only a matter of days before they can put this all behind them and go on with their lives – hopefully.

“Eagerness does not suit you, my love.”

Benvolio wrinkles his nose a little, which makes her laugh. The sound is carefree even to her own ears, something Rosaline still has to get used to – she was not prepared for those feelings, for the lightness in her chest when she looks at Benvolio and the thrill down her spine when he holds her hand or kisses her. She was not prepared for falling in love with him, even less for hiding it from the world – surely Verona would have unkind words for herlike it had for Juliet, were they to know she sneaks away to steal kisses from her betrothed in a very unladylike manner.

People will care very little, once they are married – for they will be married soon indeed, neither objecting to the prospect anymore – but for now, Rosaline is careful. It could cost her her reputation, or even Livia’s, and she cannot afford to let her feelings come in the way of her better judgments.

Even if her feelings are in the shape of one particularly attractive man.

“And you are a bad actress,” he replies, before kissing his way up her throat to make a point. The way she sighs and tilts her head to allow him better access makes him smirk against her skin, and Rosaline has to admit the truth – she is as eager as he is.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Benvolio watches Rosaline in the library

“The Terrific Trio is staring again.”

Rosaline forces herself not to look up from her book at Livia’s words, though Juliet does quite the opposite – she looks up, fingers playing with one strand of her hair, and smiles at a third of the Terrific Trio. Rosaline and Livia share a look, halfway between disgusted and resigned. It’s been a few weeks of this already, Romeo and his posse showing up at the library when the girls are studying, and then pretending like they’re not here only so he can flirt with Juliet despite the Capulet sorority and the Montague fraternity being archenemies on campus.

“This is getting ridiculous,” Rosaline sighs as she turns a page and focuses on the words.

But, try as she might, she has to read the same line three times before it makes sense, because she can hear Mercutio’s barely repressed laughter and Benvolio’s groans, and Romeo trying to be slick about flirting. They definitely are the worst, and she hates them. So. Much.

It is even more ridiculous based on the fact that Juliet is the president of the sorority – she could easily erase the no-dating-Montagues policy if she wanted, but they all know her mother would not approve. Being a Capulet is more than sharing the same sigil on their shirts – it is family, daughters following in their mothers’ steps once they arrive at Verona U. Breaking tradition would make for a very painful Thanksgiving dinner indeed.

“I can’t do this,” Rosaline gives up after another ten minutes of this nonsense. She closes her book and her laptop, shoves a few pens in her bag, and adds, “Date him. Don’t date him. I don’t care, but do something about it.”

Livia snickers a little as Rosaline leaves the study room under the soft protests of her cousin. She thankfully finds an empty table in another corner of the library, close enough to a plug that she doesn’t have to worry about her laptop’s battery. She still has an essay to finish for her Feminist Literature class and homework for her Italian grammar workshop. She can’t afford to entertain Juliet’s Montague fantasies.

Rosaline is halfway through the first draft of her essay – two hours and as many cups of coffee later – when she notices that she is not alone. It takes a few moments for her to spy the person sitting around the corner, and three seconds more to identify him. She groans, and rubs her eyes – she definitely does not have enough patience now, or ever, to deal with this shit.

Pretending like she needs to stretch her legs, she stands up and walks around one shelf of books. And lo and behold here he is, Benvolio Montague sitting at another table, nose too close to a piece of paper for his own good. She would believe him to pretend being deep in thought, if it wasn’t for the frown on his face as his pen scratches against the paper. Silent, she stares at him from afar, and so doesn’t miss the way he glances in the direction of her table, only to frown even more when he notices her absence.

He looks around, his eyes meeting hers at last, and swiftly closes his notebook – he couldn’t look guiltier if he tried. Rosaline doesn’t know a lot of things about him, but she does know that he is an art student, if only because half the fraternities on campus pay him to create their posters for parties. And because Juliet might have mentioned it, once or twice in passing. Why Rosaline remembers the detail, she has no idea.

“I never agreed to being a model,” she tells him as she walks toward his table.

He plays coy at first, but his fingers are dark with charcoal and Montagues are not renowned for their acting skills, except when it comes to lying to the administration about illegal parties. And everyone knows Mercutio does the talking in those instances, not the grumpy cat one.

“Full of yourself, aren’t you?” Benvolio leers back with the kind of smirk she wants to scratch off his face. “Typical Capulet, thinking she’s worthy of everyone’s attention.”

“Typical Montague, always looking for a way to put people down.”

Anger flashes in his eyes, his nose twitching a little. He may think better of it, though – the library staff does have a zero-tolerance policy about noise – for he stands up and leaves the library, not without one last glare her way. Like she was the creepy one at fault there.

Rosaline glares back until he disappears around a corner, and then glares at the wall some more. She sighs loudly, before going back to her table. Her mind is elsewhere, though, unable to focus again as it keeps wandering back to him. She chases the thoughts away, and gives up on studying.

(She is back the following day, and so is he.)

(And the day after.)

(And the one after that.)

(One day, she will discover a notebook full of sketches and doodles, her face and Romeo’s smile and the lines around Mercutio’s eyes when he laughs. The slope of her neck when she bends over a book. Her hand holding a pen. The way her hair looks when she lets it fall free around her face. The curve of her grin when he makes a joke. The shape of her naked body on his bed, sheets pooling around her hips and sun kissing her bare skin. One day, she will discover it, this love letter to her, to their relationship.)

(One day, but for now she settles on glaring.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: cuddling by the fireplace

“You’re going to hurt your eyes.”

Rosaline looks up from her book in a startle, eyes widening. Despite the silence of the cabin, only disturbed by the cracking of the fire and the wind whistling outside, she hadn’t heard the sound of his footsteps or even the door to their bedroom opening. Benvolio stands next to the sofa, PJ bottoms low on his hips and hair ruffled by sleep. It might be cold and snowing, but it doesn’t mean he has to wear a shirt, and Rosaline gives herself a few seconds to admire the expanse of his bare chest before her eyes travel up and meet his. Worry dances in them, to which she replies with a simple shrug.

He is right, of course – her eyes feel tired from straining to read with only the fire for light, and it is past anyone’s bed time. She should be fast asleep by his side, instead of reading another in the dark living room.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she explains.

Thankfully, Benvolio doesn’t ask for further detail. Instead, he moves closer to her. Rosaline shrugs off the blanket she had draped around her shoulders for warmth, only to wrap it around them both when he comes to sit behind her, his knees caging her sides. She leans against his chest as he covers her with the blanket, his arms strong and solid around her waist. Rosaline closes her eyes, breathing in the smell of fire and his perfume.

“It’s too quiet,” she tells him, after long minutes of silence.

Benvolio, nose pressed against her neck, hums softly. To Romeo’s insistence, they all travelled from Verona to the Alps for what was described as a “much needed break from uni and from the family mess”. Even if none of them say so out loud, they all know it was mostly to spend Christmas together instead of torn between both families. And Rosaline had agreed, of course – she would rather spend time with her friends than Christmas dinner with her aunt glaring daggers at her – but that was before she realises how oppressingly silent the mountains can be. Especially at night.

“That’s because Mercutio is sleeping,” Benvolio replies with a chuckle.

A tentative smile curls Rosaline’s mouth, before she closes her eyes once more and turns in her boyfriend’s embrace to snuggle closer to him. He tightens his hold on her and drops a kiss on top of her head, which makes her sigh happily. Only two months ago, she would have laughed at the idea of finding comfort in a Montague’s arms. Now, she cannot remember a time where she didn’t enjoy his quiet presence and unwavering support.

Rosaline is wondering if she can fall asleep there, on the floor next to the fireplace, when Benvolio’s hand caress its way down her stomach and startles her. She sucks in a breath when his fingers toy with the hem of her pyjamas shorts, their warmth a sharp contrast with the cool air of the cabin.

“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice straining a little when his hand travels down, above the fabric.

She doesn’t need to look at Benvolio to hear the smirk in his voice. “I know an activity or two that could exhaust you enough.”

“Or maybe boring enough to put me to sleep,” she teases.

He groans in reply, halfway between offended and playful. Grinning, Rosaline shifts to catch his lips into a kiss, just in time for his mouth to swallow her moan when his hand sneaks under her panties. He knows the exact way to make her breathless and panting in only a few seconds, and so he does.

“Okay. Bedroom. Now.”

His victorious laugh is all Rosaline needs to surge to her feet.


	7. Chapter 7

“What is that noise?”

Rosaline looks up from her book at Livia sitting next to her. She frowns slightly, confused as to what could have disturbed her sister’s thoughts, before she hears it too – the small sound of a pebble against her window. Both sisters share a look before they stand as one and run toward the balcony. Rosaline lets out a disbelieving huff of breath at the sight of Benvolio beneath her window, while Livia groans a little.

“Rosaline, Rosaline, let down your hair,” he singsongs with a grin.

“Montague, what are you doing?” Rosaline looks above her shoulder quickly, then down the street. She may not be fond of the man, but it doesn’t mean she wants her cousins to murder him the moment they find him in the gardens. Before they see how close to the vine Romeo climbed he is.

“I wanted to see you before tomorrow.”

Rosaline’s heart drops in her stomach at the thought. Tomorrow. The wedding they can no longer postpone nor cancel, for they still haven’t found their common enemy and have run out of time. Reading was but a distraction from things to come, and Benvolio only serves as a painful reminder that tomorrow she will be free from her aunt’s scorn, only to become a Montague wife.

Rosaline still isn’t sure which opinion is the least appealing one. Not that she had much time to think of it today – it was decided that the loving couple would not see each other before the ceremony, as tradition would have it, and Rosaline had been busied all day long. Reading and spending time with Livia almost felt like a privilege, one Benvolio ruined as always.

“Go back where you came from, Montague,” Livia chimes in. “We will see enough of you tomorrow.”

It only makes Benvolio’s grin bigger – for some reason, he really does appreciate Livia’s scorn. Ignoring her comments, he takes two steps towards the wall, grabbing at the vine. Despite the sisters’ protests, he makes his way up in a few moments, climbing on top of the balcony. What his movements lack in grace, he makes up in smirks and prideful eyes.

“I refuse to be complicit,” Livia states. “I just refuse.”

Rosaline can’t even argue against this, and so she lets her sister leave the room. Her eyes stay on the closed door for longer than is necessary, before she glares back at her husband-to-be. His smile is softer, somehow, and it only makes matter worse.

“What are you doing?” she asks again.

Never one to care much about anything, Benvolio moves around her bedroom, looking curiously at every detail. He looks so comfortable, like he just belongs there, in her life, that it scares Rosaline a bit. He shouldn’t belong in his enemy’s house, nor by her side. This isn’t the order of things – a disturbance in the status quo, an anomaly after years of rivalry and bloodshed.

“I have something for you,” he explains simply. “For tomorrow.”

Rosaline arches an eyebrow and folds her arms on her chest. He moves closer to her and takes her hand, battling with her a few second before she gives up on her pettiness and opens her palm up as he forces her to do. He smirks at the roll of her eyes, before he takes something out of the inside pocket of his leather jacket.

The thing shines golden before he careful drops it in her palm, and Rosaline gasps when she takes a closer look at it. It is a simple but beautiful pendant, sapphire stone hanging from a delicate gold chain. It looks old and well-loved, polished into perfection. Definitely not some trinket he bought on the marketplace for a few coins.

“Is that…”

“It was my mother’s,” he admits. When Rosaline looks up from the necklace and into his eyes, she read vulnerability in them – it is not simply a piece of jewellery he is offering, and her breath catches in her throat at what that implies. What that means for them. “It is tradition, for women of our family to wear in on their wedding day. She would have wanted you to have it.”

His words open doors to thoughts she never had before – what would her parents have thought of their union? Of her marrying into the Montague family? What would they have thought of Benvolio, regardless of his name and title? Would they have liked him, as a man if not as a Montague? Would it have mattered? Does it matter now?

It leaves her dizzy and breathless, and Benvolio must notice for he wraps his hand around her so she closes her fist around the necklace. It is warm to the touch, and heavy in her palm – not for the weight of the gold, but for that of its importance.

“She would have liked you,” he goes on, as if privy to her mind. “Fierce and with a sharp tongue. She would have loved you dearly.”

Which doesn’t help, all things considered. So Rosaline elects to focus on something else, something different. “Blue means fidelity.”

And it has the effect she hoped for – Benvolio is the one to suck in a breath this time, before he releases it in a soft chuckle, and shakes his head. They are so close to each other already, but he moves closer still, until Rosaline has no other choice but to hold his gaze.

He doesn’t look away from her, his eyes don’t waver, when he says, “I am aware of my reputation as a bachelor. But believe me when I say, dear Rosaline, that your bed will be the only one I warm from now on. And if you are not willing, then no warming of bed it will be, for I am a man of honour and loyalty.”

She wants to scoff at the seriousness of his words behind promises that are so easy to break. But the intensity of his eyes matches that of his declaration. But she knows of his reputation now – not just that of drinking and whoring, but of his undying love for Romeo and Mercutio. What he did to focus his uncle’s temper on him, instead of Romeo. How careful he was to put his friends first, and himself second. And how he hasn’t been seen in the taverns ever since the engagement ceremony.

(Servants are a great many things, and gossips run free in the kitchens. Everything Livia heard, she reported to Rosaline. With a scoff, most of the time, but still she reported on Benvolio’s reputation as a loyal man of his word.)

“Thank you,” she says, the words foreign on her tongue when addressed to him.

He nods, and seems to be hesitating for a moment, before the hand that is not wrapped around her own comes to cup her cheek. Rosaline’s body goes still at the sudden physicality of it, even more so when he presses his forehead to hers. It is too intimate for them, too heavy with something that she refuses to see blossom. The inevitability of it, she refuses to acknowledge, too.

“I am sorry,” he whispers, drawing a bittersweet from her at the memories of the engagement ceremony.

“So am I,” she answers, as honest as they were back then.

And perhaps it is enough for now.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: last cuddle

The sun filters through the thin curtain, kissing the bare skin of her shoulder and making her sigh. Rosaline’s mind is caught in this state halfway between sleep and awakening, her body still heavy with dreams, her muscles sore when she stretches her legs. They get tangled in the sheets and his legs, a mess of limbs and fabric that makes her smile lazily. His body is warm and solid against her back, his even breath tingling the nape of her neck.

Her cheeks heat up at the memories of the previous night – breathless chuckles, gasps and moans stuck at the back of her throat, fingers tightening around the sheets, nails drawing red lines on his back. She licks her lips, the warmth of her desire polling between her legs and leaving her light and wanting.

Her hips shift on the mattress, just enough to pull her closer to him. He groans, low and guttural. “You will be the death of me, Capulet.”

Her smile turns into a smirk, even more so when his lips find her shoulder in several kisses, traveling his way up to her neck. She finds herself grateful for her dark skin, for how it hides the many bruises his mouth left here last night.

“You will need to stop that,” she tells him softly, even as her hand takes his to wrap more tightly around her waist. He pulls her to his chest, until she can no longer tell where his body stop and hers beginning, until his pale skin create a sharp contrast with her dark one. “ _Capulet_ ,” she adds, for emphasis.

He grins against her skin, his heart racing so fast she can feel it at her back – matching the beating of her own, when she remembers the events of the day, the ceremony she once dreaded so much but now welcomes with opened arms. For today a Capulet no more she will be, for today she will take her husband’s name at last.

“You will always be the Capulet harpy to me,” he teases.

She laughs as she shifts in his arms to face him. Benvolio doesn’t lose a second before he kisses her, his hand pressed against her lower back and his legs tangled with her. She moans, both at the kiss and the feeling of him hard and wanting against her stomach. Never would have she thought that such feelings would be so overwhelming, let alone welcomed. But Benvolio ignites something new inside of her that only he, only his body against and on top of hers, can soothe.

“And to think they call you romantic,” she laughs between kisses.

He makes a face at her, hunger in his eyes and at the corners of his mouth – no doubt ready to prove how much he loves her with his body – when the slam of a door surprises them both. Soon her servants will come to scrub her skin and hair, to make her look perfect and presentable for the wedding. Rosaline dares not imagine what would happen if they found Benvolio in her bed, having claimed her body a day too early.

He must reach the same conclusions, for he pulls away from her with a sigh. Only a miracle manages to take him away from her bed, gloriously naked as he looks for his clothes scattered across the room. Rosaline leans back in bed, admiring the view he offers – she stares and he stops, meeting her eyes with a glint of amusement in his blue ones.

“I hope the view is to your liking, my lady.”

She grins, just for a moment, before she replies with a simple “nah” and a shrug that has him opening his mouth in mocked affront. He is quick to slip into his clothes after that, breeches low on his hips and shirt opened on his chest. Barefoot, he comes back to the bed, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing his face between her breasts – the motion so natural you would think they were long-time lovers. But he explored her body for the first time only hours before, and Rosaline is surprised at how comfortable they already are around each other’s bodies. As if they were simply waiting for it to happen, as if it was always meant to be.

“Farewell, lady Capulet,” he tells her, before kissing her lips. “Farewell, fair Rosaline. For the next time I see you, you shall be lady Montague and I shall call you mine.”

So it is true, what they said – the art of the theatrics wasn’t Romeo’s alone but indeed runs in the family.

“Farewell, Montague. You shall find me at the altar in a few hours.”

“Ready to say goodbye to your beloved nuns,” he grins. “But not to Him, for you called His name several times last night.”

“Oh, go away,” she laughs, and kicks him out of her bed.

He laughs too and steals one last kiss from her, before grabbing his boots. He doesn’t bother pulling them on, climbing down the vine by her window with them in his hand. She wraps the sheet around her chest and hurries to the balcony to watch him go – watches him send her only last kiss with his hand and grin at her before disappearing between two bushes of roses.

Farewell, fair lady Capulet, indeed.


	9. Chapter 9

“Maybe he has a weird fetish.”

“He’s a stripper.”

“He’s secretly Edward Cullen.”

“A _stripper_ Edward Cullen.”

“Girls, come on!”

Rosaline and Livia stop grinning like lunatics at each other to stare at their cousin. Juliet stares right back, unamused pout on her lips and closed fists on her hips – she thinks it makes her look threatening in some way, but Juliet is as scary as a kitten on a good day. As it is, both sisters just smirk at their cousin, not chastised in the least.

Still, the question remains – why Romeo’s cousin keeps finding excuses to skip on their gathering, and how glitter seems to be following him everywhere. Not that Rosaline really minds his absence – if he has a weird kink going on with his habit to open the legs of every Not-Capulet girl in town, then so be it. And if he can do it as far away from her as possible so she doesn’t have to spend time with him, then even better.

The less the merrier, when it comes to Montagues.

It doesn’t stop Rosaline and Livia from speculating away, mostly because they’re bored and because they particularly enjoy how frustrated Juliet gets now when they make fun of her husband’s family. Rosaline has to admit Romeo Montague isn’t that terrible, all things considered. And it may have taken a lot of warming up, but they’re finally getting along with Mercutio – mostly because he’s really good at finding great bars with cheap alcohol, and because he’s even worse than them when it comes to gossiping.

The elusive Benvolio is the only one Rosaline can’t stand, and she’s pretty sure it will remain that way forever. Because he made sure they knew he would rather fuck all of Verona instead of spending one evening with them, and because when he does indeed agree to have a drink with the group, he keeps fighting Rosaline. She wonders if he’s aware of how borderline mansplaining his arguments are, or if he even cares – probably not.

Livia leans closer to her cousin with her chin in hand, smiling sweetly. “Do you know what he’s up to?”

Juliet huffs and rolls her eyes, before she drinks from her latte. Rosaline raises an eyebrow at the obvious stalling, even more so when Juliet replies, “No, I don’t. And it’s none of our business.”

So she knows.

 

…

 

Two weeks later, Rosaline catches Benvolio coming home in the morning, glitter in his hair and neon streaks of paint on his arms. She crashed Romeo’s couch after the party last night, and didn’t expect to witness the other Montague’s walk of shame the following morning.

His eyes widen a bit when he notices her, but he doesn’t say anything nor does he appear ashamed.

“Good night?” she leers, standing up to go and make herself some coffee – if the snoring coming from the bedroom is anything to go by, Juliet and her husband won’t come out until the middle of the afternoon.

“Was okay,” Benvolio replies as he follows her to the kitchen.

She sips on her coffee while she watches as he scrubs his arms free of paint. Neither of them comment on it until, with one last glance his way, he goes and locks himself in his room.

 

…

 

“ _Feathers_?”

“Yeah, like – bright pink and yellow and stuff. In his hair.”

“I swear to god, Livia, if you tell me…”

“He’s a drag queen.”

“That. If you tell me _that_.”

 

…

 

When Romeo asked Rosaline if she could go shopping for Juliet’s perfect birthday gift with him, she had somewhat pictured the outing to be the two of them and no one else. Rosaline should have expected Romeo never to go out with his two other soulmates, though. And let it be known that Rosaline doesn’t really appreciate Mercutio and Benvolio following them around at the mall and complaining about everything. What did they expect anyway?

She forces herself not to roll her eyes too much, fearing that they will get stuck at the back of her head before the end of the day, but they really are testing her patience. Romeo notices, and sends her a grateful smile before he calls a break and buys her a coffee and a donut. They sit on uncomfortable plastic chairs and watch people go by, all the while trying not to be disgusted by the sugary monster Mercutio calls an ice cream – he basically put all the toppings available on top of it. Diabetes in a cup.

Rosaline makes a face at him, before she focuses on her phone – the Verona Venuses group chat is in a frenzy, Bianca telling the latest gossips about Kat and her not-really-boyfriend-but-close-enough. She is typing one particularly smarmy comment toward Patrick when she’s interrupted by a kid showing up at their table.

The girl can’t be older than twelve, with pigtails and a puffy skirt, grinning at Benvolio like he hangs the moon and stars. He pales at the sight, with a quick glance Rosaline’s way before he focuses back on the kid. He offers her the most awkward smile Rosaline has ever seen in her life, and she would almost feel bad for him. Almost.

“Hi, Ben!” the little girl exclaims, too loudly.

“Hello, Maria.”

“We missed you this morning.”

He blanches even more, and all thoughts of Bianca’s drama jump out the window in Rosaline’s mind as she focuses on the scene in front of her. Livia’s voice in her head is _squeaking_ with excitation, but Rosaline is good enough of an actress to smooth her features into a neutral face instead.

“I’m sorry about that,” Benvolio replies. “How’s your brother doing?”

“He’s okay. I came to buy him a new teddy bear for when he gets out of the OR tomorrow.”

Benvolio finally cracks a real smile, and ruffles the girl’s hair a little, which makes her giggle in response. Rosaline is mesmerized, unable to look away. “Good girl,” he says next. “Tell everyone I’ll be back next Saturday, okay?”

“Okay!”

And with that, the girl skips her way back to her mother, with one last wave at Benvolio when she grabs the woman’s hand. Benvolio waves back before focusing on his phone, so pointedly ignoring the other three around him that even Romeo raises a surprised eyebrow at his antics. Rosaline shares a look with Mercutio, hoping to get answers from the most talkative of the trio, but he just shrugs at her. Rosaline knows when to drop it.

Except she doesn’t.

Romeo and Mercutio are excitedly checking a new console in the video games store, Benvolio standing by the entrance, when she corners him. Not too obviously, just standing next to him and pretending to care about – some Pikachu plushy, or something. She has no idea.

“So what was that about, earlier?”

He doesn’t glance her way, doesn’t even acknowledge her presence, but the tip of his ears is suddenly red with a blush that doesn’t reach his cheeks. Rosaline knows a thing or two about the power of silent staring – she does have a younger sister and cousin, after all – and it only takes Benvolio about three more minute before he sighs loudly and shakes his head.

“I volunteer at the children’s hospital every Saturday morning,” he confesses. “We do arts and crafts.”

“That’s not really…”

“And I play football with the kids at the orphanage every Sunday morning.”

Rosaline is left staring at him, mouth opened in surprised. She closes it after long seconds, blinking twice, hard. But Benvolio doesn’t suddenly laugh at her and tells her he got her, simply keeps evading her eyes, like – like it pains him to admit it. Like he really didn’t want her to know he actually is a kind, selfless person.

“That’s… Oh my god, Livia thinks you’re _cross-dressing_.”

That does the trick, Benvolio looking at her with wide eyes. “What?”

“She…” A laugh bubbles out of Rosaline’s mouth, and she pressed a mouth to her lips to swallow down the sound even if it’s too late. “Oh my god. The feathers and – so much _glitter_.”

“Kids fucking love glitter, okay,” he argues back, folding his arms on his chest defensively. It’s not all that effective, when he’s also smiling a little.

“So when everybody thinks you’re just slutting your way through Verona’s crowd…”

“I’m going to sleep early ‘cause I have to be at the hospital at eight in the morning.”

“But _why_?”

It should maybe scare Rosaline that Benvolio understands her question immediately, understands that she isn’t asking why he does it. Benvolio and she may not agree on a lot of things, but they share a common knowledge – that of being orphans and having to take care of your own because nobody else is there for them. That of being treated like dirt by family members who couldn’t care less about you. That of being the only ones to know Juliet had eloped with Romeo for an entire week, despite trying to stop them.

So she knows perfectly why Benvolio is doing the things he does.

What she doesn’t know… He just shrugs at first, then says, “Because it’s easier that way, I guess? I’ve never really cared about my reputation, and I don’t want to suddenly be that guy who’s nice to orphans and shit.”

“Yeah, cute guy being cute to children. What a fucking turn-off. No girl will want you now.”

Benvolio shifts to face her, a smirk finding its way to his lips. “Capulet, do you find me _cute_?”

Rosaline huffs and puffs loudly, grateful for the shitty lightning in the store – it hides the crimson shade of her dark skin from him and his mocking words. There is no point in arguing that she was talking about girls in general, not herself, because it would only be digging an even deeper hole for herself. And he’s right anyway, kinda. It does make him cute, knowing that he cares so much about children. Not that she particularly cared about his one-night stands before – not her thing, but who is she to judge? – but she almost feels, dare she say, relieved to learn it wasn’t the case? Happy, perhaps?

Which, of course, doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t change the fact that he called her a harpy more than once, sometimes to her face. It doesn’t change the fact that she can’t stand him, or that he always finds a way to push her buttons. It doesn’t change anything at all.

He smiles like he knows things, which is even more unnerving, and adds, “You can come with me next week if you want.”

 

…

 

The next Saturday, Rosaline watches as a little girl with a nasal cannula sits on Benvolio’s lap and draws in a colouring book while he careful braids her hair.

It changes _everything_.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone still alive after this week's ep? Cause I'm personally dead and writing from the grave!

“Did you really mean it?”

Her riding cloak does very little to shield her from the night winds, despite Benvolio poking at the fire with a stick to keep it alive. He stops his probing of the fire to look up at her, a puzzled frown marring his brows. He says nothing at first, but he must notice her shivering form even in the darkness, for he sheds his leather jacket and moves to her side of the fire. He doesn’t hand it to her, instead putting her around her shoulders, and Rosaline smiles her thanks at him before she grabs the lapels and pulls the fabric closer to her chin.

“What you said,” she clarifies, “about me being all you have.”

Despite only the moon and the fire at his back as sources of lights, Rosaline doesn’t miss how Benvolio’s cheeks turn crimson with shame. He evades her eyes, staring at the ground, before he elects to sit by her side. His thigh brushes against hers as he does so, but she doesn’t recoil from it.

He stares ahead of him in silence for a few moments long, leaving Rosaline the luxury of staring at his face. His eyes are still red from the tears he shed earlier – never had she seen that much vulnerability in a man before, so many emotions at once on his features as he begged for her help. She could not imagine her uncle act in such a way. Even her father had a pride to him that had him strong in the face of adversity. But Benvolio, she is coming to learn, wears his heart on his sleeve, and is not afraid of her judgment when it comes to sharing his emotions with her.

When he finally speaks, it’s after clearing his throat with a cough. Even then, his voice is lower than usual, and Rosaline fears another burst of tears, for she knows very little about comforting people who are neither Livia not Juliet. “My mother died in childbirth, and my father not long after. For as far as I remember, my uncle has always hated me, for the crime of being alive while his brother is dead. Romeo came to the world a few years later, and it was expected of me to take care of him. I loved him like my own brother from the moment he was born.”

A sad smile curls up his lips even as he shakes his head pitifully at the memories. Rosaline’s mind comes up with the picture of a toddler trotting around behind a young boy, both of them with wooden swords on their hips, and it makes her smile fondly. She remembers being young, and brushing Livia’s hair while Juliet was braiding flowers in hers, remembers the laughs and whispers and tea parties. For Benvolio to have been through the same process with Romeo warms her heart more than she would have expected.

“We were but children when we met Mercutio, and he never left our side from this moment. They were all I had, my only friends, the only people who looked at me and saw Benvolio, instead of the dead father I could never replace.”

He definitely sniffs this time, so Rosaline is not surprised to see his eyes watering again. Her aunt’s insults echo in her head, each of them stinging more than the last. How it took so long for Rosaline to notice how similar she is to her betrothed, she will never know, but it is impossible to ignore now. She thinks back to the heated argument they had at her house, and can only see the truth in their words – their hatred came from the other’s name, and she finds herself lacking reasons to despise him now.

“Add to this cousins who now mock me for marrying a Capulet and someone whose affections were only bought,” he goes on, “and you will find out that, indeed, you may be the only one I have left in this world.”

“Should I apologize for that?” she finds herself asking, her tone lighter than it would have been only days ago. Never would she have pictured herself teasing the Montague before, and yet here she is, smiling at herself when she gets a small chuckle out of him. He shakes his head again, a little too self-deprecatingly perhaps, before his eyes finally meet hers – they shine in the firelight, but he’s gratefully not crying anymore. Still, Rosaline reads the turmoil in his pupils, and finds herself at loss for words. She may not know how to comfort a man, but Benvolio is not the man she expected him to be, and she knows how to comfort anyone else. So, carefully, she moves closer to him under she can wrap her arms around his and lean her head against his shoulder.

His body tense at their close proximity at first, before he heaves a sigh and leans into her embrace with his cheek pressed to the top her her head. Neither of them speak again for long minutes, instead electing to stare at the fire in silence. Only the cracking of the burning wood and an owl hooting in the distance come to disturb their peace and, for what seems like the first time in a very long while, Rosaline finds herself calming down.

They may be running away from Verona and running for Benvolio’s life, battling for a way out of their predicament, but all of their troubles suddenly don’t look as insurmountable as before. Tomorrow they will be closer to the monastery they are heading for, and in a few days they will be in Verona with Benvolio’s name cleared, for they will have that of the real murderer.

“There are worst people to rely on, I supposed.”

Rosaline smirks and snickers at his words, even though she doesn’t move away from their embrace. His leather jacket keeps her warm, but not as much as his body pressed to her own, not as much as the warmth spreading inside her with each passing minute.

 And then he adds, “Even if you do not appreciate my art as dearly as you should,” and the laugh bubbles out of Rosaline before she can swallow it down.

Handsome and witty, she had said once, out of spite more than anything else. She now wonders if the Fates laugh at her, for she is learning than he is both those things, as well as kind and loyal. Rosaline could even say that she would rather him be less confrontational, but that would be a lie, for even in his most maddening moments he manages to be entertaining enough.

“I shall now be a dutiful wife and praise those scribbles you call drawings, if it so pleases you,” she teases him in return.

Instead of being amused, Benvolio leans away to stare down at her – the serious gleam to his eyes making her uneasy for a moment, even more so when he raises his free hand to cup her face. Whatever he sees in her, she does not know, but it seems as if he is reading her deepest thought, her hidden secrets. Or, at the very least, is trying to.

“I know not what the future will hold for me, but please do promise me to always speak your mind to me. I do not want you to play a role with me, nor do I want to play one with you. If anything else, let us be Benvolio and Rosaline, and not the version of ourselves they expect us to be.”

That, Rosaline decides, she can do. This whole ordeal is exhausting enough as it is for her to keep playing the part of the lady and fear judgements on her character. Whichever thoughts Benvolio has about her, they were only worse a week ago – and so were hers for him. Pretending to be people they are not when nobody else is there to see them seems like a lot of efforts for very little. Being Rosaline and getting to know Benvolio for who is he – for who his friends loved – is a much better option in her mind.

“What you lack in artistic skills, you make up in good ideas, I supposed.”

His grin reaches his eyes this time, and with it comes dimples in his cheeks that have Rosaline’s breath caught in her throat for a moment. For this is the handsome Montague servant girls love to whisper about – charming and handsome in that way very few men ever are.

“Careful there, Capulet. It was almost a compliment.”

She pushes him aside, which only makes him laugh in reply, before she decides that having Benvolio Montague as a friend and an ally might not be such a terrible thing after all.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Rosaline helping Benvolio after he's been physically hurt
> 
> (tw: physical abuse)

She grits her teeth at Benvolio’s sharp intake of breath when she presses the cloth to his cheek, wishing that Livia was there instead of her. No, it isn’t true, she thinks to herself as she wills the alcohol fumes away, for she wouldn’t let even Livia take care of Benvolio in her place. Not when she finally has him sitting down and letting her take care of his wounds, not when he needs peace and quiet as much as he needs the blood to stop pouring out of his open cheek.

“I despise them,” she whispers, not even attempting to hide the anger in her voice. “Him most of all.”

The cloth turns crimson, and the only reason Rosaline doesn’t panic if for the knowledge that facial wound always look worse than they actually are. As long as she puts pressure on it for long enough, it will stop bleeding and not leave a scar on his skin.

“It is but a scratch,” Benvolio replies, and Rosaline hates that even more, for it comes with the knowledge that Benvolio’s uncle indeed did worse to him in the past. Details are not needed, for Benvolio’s shrivelling behaviour when facing his uncle is nothing like the smug, witty man she has come to love. Rosaline knows a scared man when she sees one.

“You clear your family’s name and bring peace back to Verona, and that is all the thanks you get?”

She lifts the cloth just enough to see the angry marks left by Lord Montague’s rings when he all but backhanded-slapped his nephew upon his return to Verona. The name of the murderer, and thus the clearing of Benvolio’s, mattered very little to the head of the House, when the shame Benvolio brought to his house seemed to carry more weight. The wound is not a deep one, but blood still cakes his cheek so she presses the cloth back to his skin and wills herself to calm down, with very little success.

“Why do you care so much?” he asks her, which is enough to have her own blood boiling once more.

“And why do you care so little?” she shoots back.

“I know to pick my battles. And this one I lost decades ago.”

This sobers her up just in time for Rosaline to feel her own heart shattering beneath her ribcage. She may have been at the receiving end of her aunt’s verbal abuse for a few years, but Benvolio has never known anything but the violence of a family who hates him for no other reason that hatred flooding through their veins. That he would be so defeatist about the abuse he receives make Rosaline want to weep, and to hug him until the broken pieces of his mind merge together once more until he knows for a fact that people do care about him so very dearly.

“Beside,” he goes on, flinching a little when she adds more alcohol to the cloth before dabbing it against his cheek, “I need my uncle’s wealth for one last favour, and then we will be free to live as we so wish, away from him.”

Despite her previous anger, a smile curls up Rosaline’s lips until she no longer is able to hide her grin. Benvolio’s announcement had come after their second betrothal – the meaningful one, the one they entered willing and, most importantly, lovingly. Benvolio had tried hiding it from her at first, but proved himself to be quite terrible at keeping a secret, and it had only taken a few moments of probing from Livia to learn what he was plotting behind her back. That he had somewhat convinced his uncle to buy her parents’ house for them to live as a married couple was nothing short of a small miracle.

The house will be theirs after the wedding ceremony, and so they have to wait yet another fortnight before calling it a home. And to no longer answer to anyone but themselves.

“And I was led to believe,” he adds with a smirk that finally reaches his eyes, “that ladies appreciate battle scars. They swoon over how brave it makes a man look.”

Rosaline presses the cloth a little more roughly against his cheek, if only to make him squirm, which he does before he sends her a reproachful glare. She replies with a sweet smile that doesn’t even attempt at being convincing. “Perhaps you should leave now and find those swooning maiden, then. I so happen to like my husband in one piece, and to know him safe, sound, and aware that his relationship with his uncle does not define him.”

The glare softens immediately, Benvolio’s lips curling into a gentle smile, before he nudges her stomach with his forehead. She lets him lean against her like this for a minute, smiling to herself, before she looks at his wound once more. The blood has finally, and thankfully, stopped flooding, so she cleans the blood away from his cheek before she discards cloth and bottle of alcohol to the side.

Benvolio doesn’t let her out of his reach for long, though, balling his fist around the fabric at her back and pulling her to him until he can press his face against her stomach once more. Her betrothed, she learnt soon enough, appreciates physical contact above all else and will go out of his way to keep her against him if given the chance. Not that Rosaline sees anything wrong in that, especially when she can run her fingers through is hair and forget about her worries in the comfort of his arms.

“Perhaps I found the finest maiden of them all,” he mumbles into the fabric of her dress.

And perhaps she found the best husband a woman could ask for.


	12. Chapter 12

His breath is laboured by the time they make it back inside, days of light meals on the road followed by the dungeon’s gruel and stale water not mixing well with his stamina. A drop of sweat rolls down the side of his face as he helps a servant to lower the Prince down in a chair, and Benvolio shakes his head against the black dots in his eyes as he takes a step back and lets the servants do their job. Before he knows it, he is leaning against a wall and watching as Rosaline shouts orders around like she owns the place – like the crown is already sitting on her head, not one servant rebelling against her authority – and the physician is called upon, running toward the Prince and holding his bag close to his chest.

Benvolio can barely focus on what is happening in front of him – the sharp smell of alcohol, the crimson of blood, the gasping and yelping of servants – even as his eyes and ears and nose take it all in. It is overwhelming in a way things seldom ever are, his breath hitching at the memories of Mercutio’s last words, of Romeo’s still body. He forces himself to inhale through the mouth not to let the panic take over, but it may be asking too much of both his mind and body after the hectic days he had.

Benvolio closes his eyes, wondering if they will blame him for sneaking out of the room while the Prince’s life is at stake, when someone comes to stand in front of him. He opens his eyes only to meet Rosaline’s big ones, worry dancing in her iris turned red by the candlelight. He opens his mouth but whichever words he was about to say die on his tongue as she all but throws herself at him, arms around his neck and chest pressed to his until he can no longer tell where her pretty dress stops and his tattered shirt begins, until he can only focus of the beating of her heart against his own ribcage, until his mind is only Rosaline, Rosaline, _Rosaline_.

He doesn’t allow himself to linger on the kiss even as he embraces her and pulls her closer still – it was but the farewell to a dying man, a last kindness grown out of guilt. This embrace is but comfort offered to a woman whose lover lies with an arrow to the heart, and Benvolio doesn’t allow himself to see it as more than it is. For Rosaline loves a man who is not him, and fantasizing otherwise will do nothing but pain him. And Benvolio has had enough pain to last him a century.

“You are all right,” she whispers against his neck, sending a shiver down his spine. She leans back to stare into his eyes again, hers red with tears, her fingers trembling as she caresses his cheeks and jaws. Her hands barely leave his face, as if afraid he will disappear if she suddenly steps away, so Benvolio cups her face in his hands, leans his forehead against her until their breaths mingles and he closes his eyes once more, allows himself that one moment – just him and her and the comfort they draw from each other.

“I am all right,” he confirms, and he doesn’t know if it is for his own sake or her own. His skin is still crawling with the idea of what could have been, his mind barely able to make up for what happened in the last half-hour – that he should be dead but isn’t, that another one is dying in his stead. And then, in the next beat, “Livia.”

He moves before he even thinks about it, taking a step toward the door as his hand reaches for the sword that no longer is at his hip. He feels light, naked without it, even as he is already forming a dozen plans in his head to get his revenge on the man who ruined his life and almost got him killed, as well as make sure that Rosaline’s sister doesn’t suffer too much from it all – that he will return her to Rosaline in one piece, no matter the cost.

He doesn’t make it three steps to the door before a hand wrap around the fabric at his back, pulling until he has no choice but to stop in his track and to turn around again. Rosaline’s jaw is set, a frown marring her brows, her fingers still tight around the pan of his shirt she had grabbed. “No,” she tells him in the _Capulet voice_ that leaves no room for arguing. “You are not going anywhere. I am not about to lose you again.”

“But your sister…” he tries to argue, always the contradictory one when it comes to Rosaline – that is, before his brain catches up with her words, leaving him speechless and confused. He opens his mouth once, uselessly, before he takes a step toward her once more. Everything about him – the way he was raised, how his uncle acted toward him, everything that has been happening these past few months – rebels against the seed of hope ingrained into his heart, until he rejects it all together and remembers what truly is important. “The Prince is dying; you should be by his side instead of mine. This is where you belong. I will see to your sister and I will make sure she is sound and safe, away from that monster. Whatever else happens matters not.”

She frowns, and grimaces, and frowns once more, before she tugs on his hand and pulls him close – this, he realises, to whisper angrily at him. For the servants may be busy, but ears always wander where they are most unwelcomed. “Will you stop with that nonsense?” Anger is burning in her eyes now, a sharp contrast with the sorrow from before. She doesn’t add anything more after that, but she needn’t to – for Benvolio knows her, and so he knows she is not a woman of many words, even more so when it comes to matters of the heart.

 _I trust you_ , she had told him. Him she trusts, and him she could love, one day perhaps. If he is a lucky enough man to be handled her delicate heart, if he is a brave enough man to live to see another day despite the threat of Paris on their city. So he nods, a slight tilt of the head that quiets the fire in her eyes.

It is as if someone snuffs out the flame inside her, too, for her shoulders slump a little with her next sigh – she was making herself taller than she is up until this moment, a presence in the room. Now there’s an air of vulnerability about her, a single tear rolling down her cheek that Benvolio catches with his thumb before cupping her face again. She leans against his hand, stealing his breath when she turns her head to kiss his wrist.

“I am scared,” she breathes out in a soft confession, as if the words escaped her.

“So am I.” His vulnerability is not news to her – he has shed too many tears in front of Rosaline, has opened his heart to her too openly, to hide his fears from her now of all times. And she seems to understand this, the moment they are sharing, for she steps closer still until he pulls her into his embrace once more, until her cheek rests on his shoulder as he holds her.

“Will he be all right?”

He looks back at the Prince – pale despite his dark complexion, sweat beading on his forehead, mouth opened uselessly. He makes for a pitiful sight but he is nothing if a stubborn man and will fight off Death itself if it means making sure his fair Verona is not stolen from his grasp. “I do hope so,” Benvolio replies before, in a surge of bravery, he kisses Rosaline’s temple. She neither complains nor pushes him away, and Benvolio’s heart does a funny thing inside his ribcage.

“Do you mind if…” she starts, unable to voice her question.

“Go on.” And then, when she looks back at him with a worried pout. “I am not going anywhere, I promise. But he does need you more than I do at the moment.”

Rosaline seems uncertain for a moment longer, before she rises on the tip of her toes and brushes a kiss to his lips – too fast for Benvolio to relish in it, but lingering enough for his heart to start racing. Her fingers slide down his hand even as she steps back, as if unwilling to let go until the very last moment. It makes him smile, only a tug at the corner of his mouth, despite the gravity of the situation – hope will have that effect on you, apparently.

Benvolio watches as Rosaline then goes to sit next to the Prince on his bed, letting the physician work his wonder. She takes to applying a wet cloth to the man’s forehead, asking questions as she does so. Benvolio’s eyes wander after a few minutes, only to find another figure standing in a corner. The newly appointed Princess Regent worries the skirt of her dress with her fingers, eyes never leaving her brother’s face even as she discusses with the man Benvolio always saw at the Prince’s side. She gives orders like she was born to do so, face untouched by emotions – Benvolio both envies and pities her for it.

It takes him a moment’s consideration before he makes up his mind, before he walks across the room and toward her. He bows his head to her, then meets her eyes and says, “As the rightful heir of House Montague, I want you to know I will do everything in my power to avenge our Prince and city, and to bring justice where justice is due.”

If she is surprised by his bold move and reclaiming of his title, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she bows her head too, and offers him a smile of her own. “Let’s get to work, then, Lord Montague.”

When Benvolio turns his head to find Rosaline once more, he can only focus on the pride in her eyes as she looks at him. Yes, he decides. Hope is a powerful thing indeed.


End file.
